Good Kings Bad Kings

“Most of the kids are chair users, but they have manual chairs. Quite a few are too gimpy for manual chairs and should have power chairs so they could get around on their own, but it’s against the rules. That’s unofficial. The official practice is that everyone who needs a power chair gets one. But just the other day I asked why this one girl, Mia, didn’t have a power chair, and Mrs. Phoebe said Mia wasn’t ready for a power chair. But I’m looking at her, she’s planted in this one spot all by herself, can’t move an inch on her own, can’t talk to the other kids, has to wait for a staff person or one of the kids who can walk to notice her so she can get a push. Mia looks about as ready for a power chair as anyone I’ve ever seen.”

The symbol of the wheelchair is a prominent tool used by the author to signify a character’s social status. If a person can move by themselves, they are more likely to have power. For Mia, her lack of mobility is representative of how little she—and others like her—are able to pursue their ambitions. She is voiceless and disregarded as an inanimate object left for others to push.

“It used to be that places like ILLC were state-run, but the state made a mess of it and now they pay our company—which, unlike the state, knows how to run a business—to do everything.”

The dangers of mixing corporate capitalism with healthcare is an important theme in this novel. Instead of properly caring for the outcomes of patients, companies like Whitney-Palm become profit oriented and begin to treat patients like a business. The allusion to how states have abandoned the care of these patients is also symbolic of how our society has largely lost interest in supporting the disabled population.

“I’m already spending the $300 in my head. I’m getting two new tires for my mom’s car, and for me I might get a winter coat at Old Navy or pay part of my Visa, depending on what the tires cost. Homeless shelters can be really profitable. I mean, I’m kidding, but it’s true.”

Similar to the capitalistic greed show in the previous quote, this comment by Michelle further evinces a sense of carelessness and inhumanity towards the disabled patients. The desire for material wealth clearly drives Michelle’s role as a recruiter, and each person she exploits acquires more wealth and status for herself.

“I told her I never even seen my father, so I don’t feel like I lost a thing and he’s just the sperm donor if you ask me. I told her my mother was technically my mother? But my tía Nene raised me and made me the woman I am today. She asked me do I ever talk to my mother since Tía died and I said sometimes. I don’t hate her but I don’t like her either, I said. I told her again how Tía Nene is my real mother. So don’t get me a foster mother or a adopting mother ’cause that will never happen. I will die first.”

Yessenia’s experience as a misguided and parentless teen from urban Chicago is largely a commentary on the vicious cycles and social patterns of poverty in American cities. Not only does her character have to deal with the struggles of being physically disabled, but in a way, she is also socially “disabled” because she doesn’t have parents or family—besides her Tía Nene—to support her. Her situation contributes to her intersectional identity as a multi-oppressed character who must overcome more than one obstacle preventing her from integrating into our society’s status quo.

“Mia’s been living here since she was eleven. She has CP, which stands for cerebral palsy. She’s got a pretty big Spanish accent. I didn’t get every word at first, but now I understand everything the first time she says it. She needs a electric wheelchair but she only has a crappy manual one. For a while she didn’t even have the manual chair and they made her lie in her bed all day. Then finally they got her this chair she’s in now. One of the footrests is broken and the seat’s too big and too wide. She fell out once. And ever since that time, they strap her into it, and she thinks it makes her look like a baby.”

Similar to the manual wheelchair, Mia’s identity as a Latina teen who speaks poor English also holds her back. This expository paragraph provided by Teddy further shows how little control Mia has in her life—she is literally at the whim of others, only able to move and communicate if those around her are willing to give her a hand. It’s a degrading experience that heightens the reader’s understanding of how inhuman some of these characters become due to their disabilities (physical and social).

“No, I’m serious though. The reason Mrs. Phoebe won’t give out power chairs is because power chairs would give the kids more autonomy. Keeping them immobile makes it easier on the staff.”

Autonomy is a word with strong social and political connotations. It’s not simply physical independence she’s referring to, but human status as well. By refusing to give “power chairs” to certain patients, ILLC—a symbol of systemic oppression—is essentially refusing to give “power” to the individuals there. Much like in society, keeping the have-nots below the upper-classes maintains a hierarchy of oppression and therefore, preserves wealth for the rich minority.

“I have to tilt. My wheelchair has a miraculous tilt mechanism. I press a button and it tilts back. You can tilt back so far you’re actually looking at the ceiling. You can’t imagine the practical applications this has. Besides the obvious, which is comfort.”

The idea of basic human comfort is something that is rarely considered for a disabled character like Joanne and the young adults she works with. In this scene, she is simply enjoying the “miraculous tilt mechanism” which allows her to maneuver her perspective differently—something other characters would take for granted. Joanne is also aware that because of her status as a wealthier white woman, it’s a function that the other disabled youth in her building don’t have. This passage reveals that even within the disabled community there is stratification and inequality.

“None of the staff bathrooms have accessible stalls, of course. At ILLC, all crips are children, including me, apparently. Mrs. Phoebe even pats me on the head from time to time. I’ve tried to object, but it happens really fast, like a drive-by patting.”

The human degradation and invisibility of the disabled community is apparent at all levels—even when it comes to using the bathroom. Joanne—who is at the top of the disabled hierarchy in ILLC as an independent, highly capable adult who is informed and passionate about her community—regularly experiences belittling interactions with her colleagues. Joanne’s sense of humor allows her to carry on (i.e. calling it “a drive-by patting”) but it’s clear that this type of behavior is degrading and inappropriate, and folks in the disabled community have to constantly deal with it.

“She reads books about prisons. I was over at her place one time and I see this thing she cut out from a—like a magazine. Her favorite magazine called the Plumed Serpent. It’s an article about what the effect is on a person to be in solitary confinement, and that a lot of people in prison have disabilities. It had a section about locking kids up in solitary too. She said even a short time can really fry up a person’s brains. She said the time-out room was a kind of solitary confinement.”

The social commentary in this passage is unmistakable. The author compares the mistreatment and abuse of the disabled characters to a prison once again to demonstrate how inhumane the conditions are for some of the youth. Rather than receiving the support or therapy they need to cope with their problems, the teens go into “solitary confinement” during “time out” and stigmatized as misbehaving juveniles who deserve to be punished.

“Not that invisibility is hard to achieve when you’re a crip. We’re minor characters in someone else’s story.”

Typically, narratives don’t include the perspectives of the disabled community—instead, they are often “minor characters in someone’s story” (93) However, Nussbaum flips this expectation by empowering her disabled characters, providing multiple narratives from the diverse viewpoints of disabled youth and adults to create a spectrum for understanding their experiences with nuance and variety rather than the simplicity of a peripheral voice.

“Well, yeah, but there’s more to it. Louie lost his cool. Like he went looking for Pierre and when he found him he dragged him up to his room and sorta—he was Louie, okay? He was a pig. Toya said it was not cool. Pierre just—he just shut down, you know?”

This moment highlights Ricky’s sense of compassion. Unlike his colleagues—who physically, psychologically, and sexually abuse the young and often helpless patients—Ricky uses his position of relative power to provide love and care. The utter humiliation and barbarity of “dragging” a boy to his room is painful for Ricky to hear about, and these moments help to fuel his desire to make a change within the system.

“I want her to know though. Don’t lie to me. I won’t tolerate it because I am on your side. A kid, a teenager like Yessie, ward of the state, I mean, I don’t know from personal experience but she must wonder sometimes, like, ‘Who is on my side?’”

In a harsh world that is defined by mistreatment and degradation, Jimmie seeks to empathetically humanize Yessenia. Having been through tough times herself as a black woman, Jimmie is clear about letting the marginalized youth that she supports them. These acts of solidarity form a theme of empowerment based in community support and human compassion that appear throughout the narrative.

“Even if I talked to her it’s extremely unlikely that she would be willing to turn this around. To help you get home, I mean. Her job is the opposite of that. She gets people into nursing homes and other institutions for a living. She got paid for convincing Cheri’s parents to send her here.”

Commenting on Cheri’s unfortunate situation, Joanne alludes to the corporate exploitation that overrides basic human care in Whitney-Palm’s mission. Money and greed drive them rather than understanding the hardship of a neglected character like Cheri. Home, as a result, becomes a nearly impossible place for these disabled teens to reach because there are many powerful financial forces working against their happiness.

“Here’s a kid, she’s not doing a damn thing, so what do they want? They want to stick the kid, by herself, into a stinky room, size of a doughnut hole. Kid is either—either doing too much of something or too little of something. Fuck you, Mrs. Velasquez.”

Ricky’s anger about human exploitation and abuse is evident in this brash passage. He understands how a teenager would be angry if they were embarrassed then locked in a tiny room. The quote clearly reveals how invested Ricky is in the well-being of his patients—he is willing to stand up to the adults who are bigoted and hateful.

“Tim is furious. Whitney-Palm will probably have to pay another fine because the girl’s parents told the state they wanted an investigation. They’re going to do an autopsy. Autopsies take a long time because the coroner’s office is so busy. […] To be honest with you, I don’t know why Tim is as mad as he is because it’s not like anyone ever pays the fines anyway.”

Perhaps the apex of heartlessness in this book, the corporate conferences between CEOs and execs in Whitney-Palm reveals just how little concern there is for the lives of their patients. When a young girl dies, they only care about their bottom-line, worrying that they might have to pay a fine as a consequence. At this point in the narrative, the amount of abuse and even deaths of patients at various facilities makes clear the rampant inadequacy of the system.

“I was looking in Whitney-Palm’s annual report and the company donated $765,000 last year to politicians. […] Whitney-Palm must give money to their campaigns so the politicians won’t do anything that would be bad for companies that run nursing homes and IMDs.”

The amount of injustice within the system extends beyond the hallways of ILLC—it even reaches into the realms of political corruption and lobbying. One of the biggest criticisms against the US healthcare system is that politicians turn a blind eye towards the ruthless inefficiency of the system because corporations, who benefit from allowing things to operate the same way, pay them off. At its core, this novel is a condemnation of this villainous and detrimental system.

“[Y]esterday I had to drive out to Riverwood Juvenile Mental Health Hospital and stay overnight at a Days Inn in Aurora, Illinois. Kill me right now if I ever end up living there.”

Once again, the putrid living conditions of disabled teens appears through the eyes of Michelle’s work. In a tone of disgust, she admits she would rather die than be in the position of the patients her company supposedly cares for. Her bias is clear and further highlights the painful gap between those who are in need of care and those who are providing the care in America.

“I’m supposed to walk down the halls and look in the rooms now, but honestly? I feel uncomfortable. So I stay in the TV area until they come out. I look at my checklist and for ‘Condition of the Common Area?’ I check ‘Clean’ but I put a ‘No’ by ‘Cheerful.’ It’s really not. It’s ugly and almost bare.”

In a moment of truth, Michelle reveals—once again—just how poor the conditions are for those in Whitney-Palm’s care. She neglects her job duties in order to avoid contact with the institution. The mood at Riverwood is simply depressing, sterile, lacking “cheerful” distractions, “ugly,” and “bare.” Sadly, it’s where the teens she recruits go to live, including Cheri. It’s clear during Michelle’s visit that it’s not a place suitable for anyone to live, let alone recuperate from a traumatic past.

“Ain’t that a bitch? Pierre gets a beat-down from Louie, so they send Pierre off to el manicomio. Is that where they sent Cheri?”

This quote is important for many reasons. First, it is yet another example of the abusive system these youth are in. Second, it reveals how the corporate pipeline works—sending the youth from one Whitney-Palm owned institution to another, therefore retaining their profit and keeping their beds filled to stay operational even at the expense of the child’s needs. Lastly, it shows how Yessenia’s sense of social awareness is developing, a foreshadow for the story’ resolution when she sparks a protest and catalyzes change within her community.

“All the people in the march got signs and they’re all disable people. Almost all of them. The signs say things like OUR HOMES! NOT NURSING HOMES! That means they want to live in their own homes.”

The theme of social justice and self-empowerment crescendos in this image of protest. The social mobilization of the disabled community contrasts against their physical limitations, but they are able to become autonomous in these moments and have a voice. Their action ignites others to join, and together, they demand their desire for the independent lifestyle they’ve been denied.

“We’re one of the few businesses for which there will always be a need. We’re like funeral directors.”

Howard Anderson, President of Whitney-Pal, exposes how unsympathetic his company is by making a joke about the life and death of disabled patients. In the face of tragedy, he is still focused on the potential financial gains his company can make rather than rethinking what changes need to occur in order for reduce the deaths, abuse, and mistreatment of these vulnerable patients.

“I appreciate the luxury of having someone to pull off my weather stripping. And under the heading of ‘Weather Stripping’ I include tightening the pipes under the sink, unjamming the paper shredder, catching stray spiders and introducing them back into the wild, and the rest of the very large family of tasks I’m unable to do for myself. The thing is, all these things, except the spiders, were getting done before Ricky came into my life. I don’t want to forget how long it took for me to become self-sufficient again after being injured. I always want to be self-sufficient. You never know how long anything might last, relationship wise.”

Joanne’s determination is evident in this quote. She is self-sufficient and proud, something that defines her and ultimately helps to shape the youth at ILLC. It also presents the larger question of what defines independent citizens. Even with Ricky around, Joanne’s gritty mentality hasn’t devolved, and she is eager to continue finding solutions to her unique set of struggles.

“He made half a million dollars a year ordering fake tests as in tests they didn’t need for nursing-home people including children. And then the nursing-home operators kept part of the money and St. Theresa’s Hospital would keep part of the money and Dr. Caviolini and some other doctors who were in on it with him would keep part of the money. The money mostly came from Medicaid and Medicare, so everyone is really mad about fraud.”

Dr. Caviolini is, in many ways, the antagonist in this book. He is sleazy, unfaithful, and involved in corruption and illegal activities in order to make more money. His character is defined by cheating, fraud, and scandal—a commentary on those who operate within the American healthcare system. Surely, not every doctor and health care corporation are involved in these immoral actions, however, it’s obvious that this novel is criticizing the egregious flaws of the US system of capitalism and corporatocracy.